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XXXI



Thy bosom is endeared with all hearts,

Which I by lacking have supposed dead;

And there reigns Love, and all Love\'s loving parts,

And all those friends which I thought buried.

How many a holy and obsequious tear

Hath dear religious love stol\'n from mine eye,

As interest of the dead, which now appear

But things remov\'d that hidden in thee lie!

Thou art the grave where buried love doth live,

Hung with the trophies of my lovers gone,

Who all their parts of me to thee did give,

That due of many now is thine alone:

  Their images I lov\'d, I view in thee,

  And thou--all they--hast all the all of me.

 	--William Shakespeare

LIV



O! how much more doth beauty beauteous seem

By that sweet ornament which truth doth give.

The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem

For that sweet odour, which doth in it live.

The canker blooms have full as deep a dye

As the perfumed tincture of the roses.

Hang on such thorns, and play as wantonly

When summer\'s breath their masked buds discloses:

But, for their virtue only is their show,

They live unwoo\'d, and unrespected fade;

Die to themselves. Sweet roses do not so;

Of their sweet deaths, are sweetest odours made: 

  And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth,

  When that shall vade, by verse distills your truth.

 	--William Shakespeare